


all that i adored

by 75hearts



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Burning of the Ships at Losgar, Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, amras-dies-at-losgar canon, just before and just after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: The boats burn. Nerdanel and Findekáno are not there, but they watch.





	all that i adored

Fëanáro had always been paranoid, reckless. She had known what she was signing up for when she married him. It was what she loved about him: his fierceness, his refusal to back down from his opinions, his unshakeable beliefs. He had been incredible, then. Crown Prince of the Noldor, genius inventor, intensely charismatic, beloved by all. She was the only one who had seen the fire in his eyes in full, and she was pretty sure she was the only one who could see that and love him for it and not despite it.

They were an incredible team--sculptures lit by gems that reflected the Trees, gold rings slipped on their fingers. Days they spent in the workshop, in comfortable silence aside from the occasional passing of tools, and every moment she fell more in love. Many had been surprised that he loved her back. She was not.

It was decades into their marriage when the visions started. The dreams, Fëanáro had called them. They were always the same. Darkness, lit only by fire and stars. Boats. The smell of burning flesh. The knowledge that Fëanáro had started the fire. The knowledge that it was her youngest son she was smelling.

She begged him, over and over. _Don’t. Please._ It was futile, of course--either it was in the Song and would come to be, or Fëanáro was right and they would not--but she could not help it. Always, the same answer. “They are just dreams, my love. I cannot swear to never again start fires--I am a metalworker, thou knowest this--but I beg you to believe me when I say I would never hurt our children. _Never_.” Sometimes, he would reassure more, but even then it felt as though he were only humoring her.

She refused to name her youngest children. The twins. They said that mother-names were based on prophetic insight. She had only one of those, and it was not fit for naming.

They had the red hair of their grandfather, so Ambarussa she named them. A name that could be spoken without the shudder of doom. It was a good name.

Fëanáro was, of course, not content with that. “They should have their own names, Nerdë, and they have no after-names yet of their own earning, so thou must give names to them. They are identical, but they are not the same person. They deserve this. Thou knowest this. Thou must.”

An uncharacteristic anger sparked in her then as she spoke. “They deserve this? Alright. Then name him _Umbarto_. Let him have that which thou sayest he deserves. Else forgive me for not giving him such a burden as I carry.”

“ _A_ mbarto,” Fëanáro said, carefully enunciating. He was a linguist; it was no mere mispronunciation. _Upwards-exalted_ , he said, not _the doomed_. “I shall take thy advice and name him this.”

They argued no more about it, but a tense silence grew between them. She never used the name. “Ambarussa,” she called to toddlers, and both boys came running towards her.

They grew up. She defended Fëanáro in the feud that built between him and Nolofinwë, stood beside him in his trial, followed him in exile to Formenos, helped him build a fortress with their sons. The fire in his eyes grew and grew. For the first time, Nerdanel feared it.

A thing that was darker than darkness swept over the land like a vast curtain; it rose to reveal a black sky dotted with stars, a sight Nerdanel had never seen outside her visions. Finwë lay dead. She rode with their sons to tell him.

He spoke of riding to Alqualondë. Of begging them for boats with which to leave Valinor. He was a talented speaker, had always been. Each word was carefully spoken, every phoneme exploding with emotion. But to her--it was a wild speech, frenzied, full of fevered energy. And as she stared at the fire in his eyes, at last her fear outweighed her love.

She pulled him aside, after, hand desperately tight on his shoulder. “Thou knowest--”

“I know that my wife has strange dreams. Thou knew when thou married me I would not change on my opinions, for much stronger proof than that. No. I will ride on.”

She let him go and spoke softly before turning away. “I would have followed thee to the edge of Arda. But I cannot follow thee now. I love thine anger as much as thy passion, and I should hold it close to my breast though it were burning us both; but my heart bids me that my visions spoke true, and I cannot justify burning our son with us.”

 

-

 

The fire was far, but elven vision is keen, and the stars were bright. There were no clouds but for the smoke. Those who looked closely could almost see the ships themselves, the white wood blackening and crumbling.

 

-

 

Findekáno paced his tent. He should have known, really. It was not as though he had no warning. Even now, he heard Turukáno’s voice in his head, warning him to stay away; and though Írissë never warned him, knowing she would be a hypocrite if she would, she was cynical about them in a way he was not--or at least in a way he had not been, before. Like as not she would respond with a knowing laugh, face sad but unsurprised. He should have known. Everyone but him had known.

It was then that he saw the letters. He wanted to curse himself for bringing them. He did not, but he stopped pacing to stare. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he forced them down. They had seemed so real, so genuine.

And where had they led him?

He had made himself a murderer, for Maitimo. And then Maitimo had abandoned him. He had to know that the host of Ñolofinwë would not turn back. He could believe that Fëanáro was wrong about that--Findekáno’s father had always been Fëanáro's blind spot--but Maitimo knew them. More than that, Maitimo knew Findekáno. Maitimo knew that, were Moringotto himself in the way, he would not turn back.

And still he burned the ships. Abandoned Findekáno to his death march.

Findekáno walked forwards and fell to his knees, scattering papers on the floor. He looked desperately through letter after letter, searching for the slightest hint of any of this. There was none. Of course there was none.

 _I thought you loved me_ , he said desperately over ósanwë. It was no good, of course. Endórë was too far, the circumstances not urgent enough, and that was all assuming Maitimo wasn’t blocking him out. And that they were as close as Findekáno had assumed. Directly in front of him, the letters said: I love you. I love you. I love you. Farther out, the ice told a different story.

The letter in his hand crumpled before he knew what he was doing. Tears threatened him once again. Had it all been lies?

Of course it had. Of course it had all been lies. And everyone but him had known it, had tried to convince him. And, like a fool, he had dismissed them all. Listened to the letters, read Maitimo’s words and believed them over the worried tones of his family. That was the worst part: he had genuinely believed them. He had believed in a better world, where families could be united and where finding the right thing to do was as easy as helping your friends when they were in danger. And then, after he had learned what he had done at Alqualondë, he had held on hope that they could still be better than this. That it was a moment of confusion and panic, an escalation. That they could still do great things, in Middle-Earth. That they could help people. Together. And, worse, he had believed that Maitimo believed the same.

He threw the letter on the floor and stood up. He would have destroyed them all then, but he knew they would need fuel, on the ice. They were not too heavy to justify carrying; they could be useful still, for heat.

Burned. Just like the ships. He nearly laughed. He was shaking as he left the tent. At least outside his tears froze before they fell, and he could pretend even to himself that his shivers were naught but the wind and cold.


End file.
